a chronoscope, one of the great machines that scanned the timelines. She had not seen one in—in—she could not remember how long. Rage filled her. Was she a child, to be answered with pictures? The contemptuousness of the response brought her in haste to the screen, fingers crooked, ready to scorch the sky with lightning.
But she caught her hands back in mid-reach. The folk who had sent her here would not be impressed with her anger. The answer was plain, as they had meant it. The need is there, seen in the timelines. You know your job. Do as you are told.
Do not impede.
* * *
The year moved on. The waterfall over the pool froze into fantastic sculpted shapes, thawed, fell, froze again. The pool did not freeze. Only its color changed, deepening under stormy skies to black. The villagers did not visit it, but the witchwoman, Akys, did, coming to kneel on the icy, slippery stones once or twice each week.
The witchwoman’s cabin by the streambed was as far up the Lady’s mountain as the villagers would venture. They carne reluctantly, drawn by need: a sick child, a sick cow, an ax wound. The women came first, and then the men. This was as it should be, for men had no place on Her mountain.
More rarely, the witchwoman went to the villagers, down the steep pathway from her home to the rutted village streets. How the knowledge came she was never sure, save that it did come, like a tugging within her head, a warning that something was amiss in wood-or village. Once it was a girl who had slipped gathering kindling and wedged her legs between two rocks. Akys had gone down to the village to fetch the villagers and bring them to the child. Once a fire started in a storeroom; they never discovered how. Had Akys smelled the smoke? She could not tell, but with knowledge beating like the blood in her temples against her brain, she came scrambling down the path to call the villagers out from sleep, and helped them beat the flames out in the icy, knife-edged wind.
In the thick of the winter, trying to gather twigs on the stony slope, the witchwoman would find firewood outside her door, or apples, cider, even small jugs of wine, to warm her when the ashes gave no warmth, and the wind thrust its many-fingered hands through her cabin’s myriad chinks. After the fire they left her a haunch of venison. She was grateful for it, for the hares and sparrows grew trapwise, and her snares often sat empty.
To pass the shut-in days in the lonely hut, the witchwoman cut a flute from a tree near the Lady’s pool, and made music. It floated down the hillside, and the village children stopped their foraging to listen to the running melodies.
Jael heard them, too. They drew her. The quavering pure tones seemed to her to be the voice of winter, singing in the ice storms. Sometimes, on dark nights, she would throw on her cloak of green cloth—a cloak made on Reorth—and go past the pool, up to the shuttered window of the witch’s house, to listen.
The music made her lonely.
On impulse one night, she shifted the lumenings to local and called across the islands to Yron. She called and called. Then she called Reorth.
YRON DOES NOT ACKNOWLEDGE TRANSMISSION
The reply came at once.
YRON RECALLED 20 YEARS AGO, LOCAL TIME.
NEW ASSIGNMENT ACCEPTED. COORDINATES FOLLOW.
There was a pause. Then a set of planetary coordinates flashed across the screen.
Jael shrugged. The transmission continued.
YOUR RECALL UNDER CONSIDERATION.
WOULD YOU ACCEPT REASSIGNMENT?
TAKE YOUR TIME.
* * *
Akys did not know when she first began to sense the presence of a stranger near her home. It came out of nowhere, like the gift of warning in her head. Especially it came at night, when clouds hid the moon and stars. At first she thought it was the wild things of the mountain, drawn by her music. But beasts leave signs that eyes can read. This presence left no sign—save, once, what might have been the print of a booted foot in
But she caught her hands back in mid-reach. The folk who had sent her here would not be impressed with her anger. The answer was plain, as they had meant it. The need is there, seen in the timelines. You know your job. Do as you are told.
Do not impede.
* * *
The year moved on. The waterfall over the pool froze into fantastic sculpted shapes, thawed, fell, froze again. The pool did not freeze. Only its color changed, deepening under stormy skies to black. The villagers did not visit it, but the witchwoman, Akys, did, coming to kneel on the icy, slippery stones once or twice each week.
The witchwoman’s cabin by the streambed was as far up the Lady’s mountain as the villagers would venture. They carne reluctantly, drawn by need: a sick child, a sick cow, an ax wound. The women came first, and then the men. This was as it should be, for men had no place on Her mountain.
More rarely, the witchwoman went to the villagers, down the steep pathway from her home to the rutted village streets. How the knowledge came she was never sure, save that it did come, like a tugging within her head, a warning that something was amiss in wood-or village. Once it was a girl who had slipped gathering kindling and wedged her legs between two rocks. Akys had gone down to the village to fetch the villagers and bring them to the child. Once a fire started in a storeroom; they never discovered how. Had Akys smelled the smoke? She could not tell, but with knowledge beating like the blood in her temples against her brain, she came scrambling down the path to call the villagers out from sleep, and helped them beat the flames out in the icy, knife-edged wind.
In the thick of the winter, trying to gather twigs on the stony slope, the witchwoman would find firewood outside her door, or apples, cider, even small jugs of wine, to warm her when the ashes gave no warmth, and the wind thrust its many-fingered hands through her cabin’s myriad chinks. After the fire they left her a haunch of venison. She was grateful for it, for the hares and sparrows grew trapwise, and her snares often sat empty.
To pass the shut-in days in the lonely hut, the witchwoman cut a flute from a tree near the Lady’s pool, and made music. It floated down the hillside, and the village children stopped their foraging to listen to the running melodies.
Jael heard them, too. They drew her. The quavering pure tones seemed to her to be the voice of winter, singing in the ice storms. Sometimes, on dark nights, she would throw on her cloak of green cloth—a cloak made on Reorth—and go past the pool, up to the shuttered window of the witch’s house, to listen.
The music made her lonely.
On impulse one night, she shifted the lumenings to local and called across the islands to Yron. She called and called. Then she called Reorth.
YRON DOES NOT ACKNOWLEDGE TRANSMISSION
The reply came at once.
YRON RECALLED 20 YEARS AGO, LOCAL TIME.
NEW ASSIGNMENT ACCEPTED. COORDINATES FOLLOW.
There was a pause. Then a set of planetary coordinates flashed across the screen.
Jael shrugged. The transmission continued.
YOUR RECALL UNDER CONSIDERATION.
WOULD YOU ACCEPT REASSIGNMENT?
TAKE YOUR TIME.
* * *
Akys did not know when she first began to sense the presence of a stranger near her home. It came out of nowhere, like the gift of warning in her head. Especially it came at night, when clouds hid the moon and stars. At first she thought it was the wild things of the mountain, drawn by her music. But beasts leave signs that eyes can read. This presence left no sign—save, once, what might have been the print of a booted foot in